


Frozen

by lisacali



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:08:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisacali/pseuds/lisacali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place in the Civil War era. Timothy has gone west for solitude and soul-searching. Those plans get derailed when he finds an injured man out in the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2013 'AU and Crossover' challenge at the Live Journal Tim_Don_a_Thon community.](http://tim-don-a-thon.livejournal.com/70928.html/)
> 
> Thanks to Pat for her beta. *hugs*

 

Timothy Callahan split the last log he had cut and placed the pieces on top of the considerable pile he had stacked against the lean-to behind his cabin. It looked like enough wood to last a whole year, much less a winter, but according to Bailey, he would be lucky to not run out, especially if it was a long season.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, watching the clouds of his breath hanging in the cold air. He longed to go inside, wash himself off, and relax with a shot of bourbon and a book. But while he had been chopping wood, dark clouds had started coming in over the mountain top. He was shocked at how quickly they were moving, and a little nervous at how dark they were. And so he decided he better use the rest of the waning daylight to do what he had planned for tomorrow.

He went about the cabin, making sure all the spaces between the logs were packed tightly with the mud and grass mixture used to insulate. He went on the roof with hammer and nails, making sure all the tar paper was tacked down tightly, that the chimney was free of debris.

He’d bought the little cabin from the Baileys – it had been their older son’s, until he decided to try his hand at gold mining. 

The Baileys themselves – Robert, Annie and their younger son, Thad – lived on a small farm at the base of the mountain, about three hours hike going down, a little longer going up. Annie had immediately taken a liking to Timmy and he was soon the fortunate recipient of all the knowledge the family had to offer.

He’d helped them bring in their crops and stack the hay for their horses in exchange for eggs and milk. 

He’d bought new canning jars for Annie, and in return she had sent him up the mountain with bottles of tomatoes, pickles, beans, apples, and peaches.

The three men had chopped wood at the farm and at the cabin, and Robert – or “Bub” as he preferred to be called – had helped Tim build a small smoker and showed him how to smoke fish. 

When Timmy bought a pig from a farmer selling them in town, he offered the Baileys half of it if they would butcher it for him. They cured, smoked and dried the meat, leaving both homesteads with enough hams, bacon, sausage, and headcheese to last months.

The lean-to was filled with this meat and smoked fish and bags of venison jerky that Bub had given him, in addition to the bottled fruits and vegetables. There was also coffee and flour and sugar and molasses and beans and rice and cornmeal and salt filling the shelves of one wall. On the other hung the tools Tim had collected over the course of the summer, along with two fishing poles. In the corner were piled two buffalo skins, with extra blankets folded on top. And there was a box holding kerosene and wicks for two oil lamps. Another box was filled with candles. There were potatoes and other root vegetables stored in a hole carved out in another corner, cover with a wooden lid. 

The cabin itself was a decent size, though only one room. It was almost square, with the front door facing down the mountain, to the west. In the south wall was a window, though it was covered in oilcloth now, so the light coming in was weak. The north wall was full, with the large fireplace, small stove, and shelves holding dishes and pans.

The bed was a good size, with a little room left over. A small table next to the head held a lamp and a Bible. A traveling trunk at the foot held his extra clothes and a set of sheets.

A cupboard next to the front door held a smaller supply of oil and candles and also flint, and his books and magazines. These were his prized possessions. He’d brought a few books with him from home, but not near as many as he would have liked. 

Soon after arriving, he’d set up an account at the grocery of the small town of Dellside a couple miles away and asked the storekeep to collect any reading material that came his way. And so now he had stacks of newspapers and magazines and serials to enjoy over the winter. And the best of all, the complete works of Shakespeare! A teacher had given up his school after an Indian attack and had sold the books to Archer, the storekeeper, on his way out.

As he put the hammer and unused nails back in their spot, he felt confident that he was ready for the winter. But now, with it being so close, he was having second thoughts about being so long by himself. He’d come to look forward to his visits to the  
Bailey farm, and also spending time with the people he’d come to know in Dellside.

His objective for coming so far west and leaving behind any way of life that he knew was to be alone, to find solitude and hopefully peace of mind. He needed time alone to reflect on his life and the feelings he had that were so troublesome to his mind.

During the busy hours of the last several months, he’d not had much time for that, falling into bed exhausted most nights, sleeping like the dead. 

While the upcoming months would finally give him the opportunity he had left his home to find, he had also come to the realization that he was not a solitary man. So it was with some trepidation that he awaited the coming winter, knowing that he would be cut off from everyone he had come to know for the most part of it.

The storm was a big one, dumping several inches of snow and lasting two days. Tim kept a small path shoveled out front to keep the door clear. Bub had presented him with a pair of snow shoes, and though the snow wasn’t quite deep enough yet to really need them, he spent a couple hours each day trying them out, getting used to the awkward strides needed to maneuver in them.

He read a little, and wrote some. He had started a journal when he left Philadelphia, and now spent some time filling in the days he had been too tired to write, which were plentiful, at least at first. He’d always thought himself in decent physical shape, but those first few weeks had left him practically unable to move at the end of the day, his muscles aching in ways he hadn’t known they could.

About a month after the first snowfall – there had been several since - on a bright, cold day, Timothy decided to walk to the stream. He’d gone a few times before, but today he thought he’d go even further down, seeing how well his legs would hold up on a longer walk. 

He made it to the stream just fine, pleased that his legs were trembling only a little. He stood several minutes watching the clear, blue water running through the snow-covered banks. He was turning to leave when a patch of dark against the white further up the stream caught his eye.

As he made his way toward it, he realized it was hole dug into the side of the hill, a small cave. There were many of them along the stream, home to many smaller animals. He wondered what creature lived there, and he decided to see if he could tell, try to develop his outdoor skills by spotting tracks or other signs of what it might be. But when he got closer he could see there was something inside in the cave – he could see a bit of fur and...and a boot! The shock set him off balance and his snowshoe became caught on a tangle of roots guarding the cave. His startled cry as he caught himself on a tree caused the boot to move.

“Hello?” Tim called out, hurrying to unlace his snow shoes so that he could get closer. 

He thought he heard an answering voice, followed by a loud, hacking cough.

Free of his shoes, he crept closer, cautiously, wishing he had brought his hunting knife.

“Hello,” he called again, bending over to look inside but still keeping an arms length of distance. The space was barely big enough for the man inside to fit, curled up inside a large fur coat, a fur hat pulled down to his eyes.

 

“Can you help me?” 

“Of course, are you hurt?”

“I’ve been shot.”

“Oh, my God! Can you walk?” 

“Yeah, I think so.”

Carefully Tim pulled the other man out. “I’m not far away, less than a mile. Do you think you can make it?”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

Tim was surprised to hear a trace of humor in the question.

“No. Put your arm around me and let’s go.”

It was slow going, even with resting twice; by the time they got to the cabin Timothy was practically dragging the man.

Inside, both men shed their coats by the door and Tim managed to just get him to the bed, laying him out on the comforter spread on top of a buffalo skin.

The man struggled to sit up. “Blood...blood on your blanket.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Tim pushed the man back. “Let’s get your shirt off and see what we’ve got.”

The man gripped Timothy’s wrist, looking intently at him with eyes burning with fever. “What’s your name?”

“Timothy Callahan.”

“Thank you, Timothy.”

Tim nodded. “And yours? Your name?”

“Strachey. Don –” A burst of deep coughing cut him off. “Donald Strachey.”

“All right, Donald, let’s see how bad this is.”

“Not too bad, through and through,” Donald said, through gritted teeth.”

“I see that.” There were two holes in Strachey’s right side, one in the front, the other his back, both looking like they were indeed clean shots, but the one on his back had grown red and inflamed and was oozing pus. Tim had only rudimentary knowledge of such things, but knew what to do for an infection. 

He went to the cupboard and took out the box that held his medicinal supplies, setting it on the bedside table. He had a kettle of water on the warm stove, still hot from his morning coffee. Pouring the water into a bowl, he wet a towel and began cleaning the wound. He winced inwardly to see the fresh, clean embroidered towel – part of a set gifted to him by Annie Bailey – become stained. 

When he had wiped the wound until the pus had stopped flowing, he took another towel and wet it with carbolic acid. Though carbolic acid was just recently being touted as an antiseptic, his mother had been advocating its uses for years.

He had a tin of ointment that his mother had sent with the carbolic, and he liberally applied the greasy cream to both sides of the wound. He took a sheet from his trunk, from which he cut squares and strips, and used them to tightly bandage Strachey. 

Tim then wiped his patients face, pulled his boots and pants off and covered him with a blanket. He worked quickly and intently. Through it all, Donald was stoic, his jaw clenched tightly, the only sounds he made pushed through his teeth, until Timothy was done. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, then turned his head and fell asleep.

While Strachey slept, Timothy built up the fire and heated up the stove. He picked up the buffalo coats they had dropped by the door, and Timothy saw that he had missed the fact that Strachey had another coat under the fur. It was gray wool – a uniform jacket from the Confederate Army, dirty and ragged, with two small holes in the right side.

Tim sat at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee laced with bourbon, watching Donald Strachey sleep. He had looked the man’s coat and pant’s pockets, not feeling guilty, at least not much. There was not much to find – a knife, a watch, and a bag of salt. No money or anything to identify him. 

Tim took stock of the man; he was smaller in stature than Timothy, and very skinny. But there was evidence of a muscular frame, though the muscles were thin and ropey now. His body and face were covered in healing cuts and bruises. Perhaps he had been in hand to hand combat, if indeed he had recently been in the war. His facial features were sharp, his mouth thin, but not unpleasant at all. In fact, Timothy could imagine him in good health being very attractive.

At the thought he brought his fist down on his leg – he had told himself he would not have these thoughts anymore. He shook his head and laughed derisively at himself; he’d come a thousand miles, completely altering his life, in order to rid himself of that demon. Yet at the first opportunity, in the form of a broken and beaten man, no less, that demon was rearing its head and whispering in his ear.

And that shouldn’t be his main concern, anyhow. A man shows up on the side of a mountain, wearing a military jacket, victim of a gunshot. Why had he been shot – was he a victim or a criminal? Why the jacket? Was he a deserter? Maybe it wasn’t even his. But then, whose?

When Donald woke, it was with a start. He sat up quickly, eyes darting until he saw Tim, standing at the stove. 

“How do you feel?” Timothy asked, filling a tin cup from the bucket of melted snow sitting on the table.

Strachey was wincing as he reached for the cup; Tim noticed his hand was shaking, so he held the cup steady to the man’s lips. “Better.” His head flopped back onto the pillow.

Tim went for another cup of water, this time adding some headache powder, plus a dose of a medicine his mother had been using for years. It was an extract of yeast and flowers, something that most doctors and scientists would not endorse. But she had been using it to success on her family, servants, and friends and neighbors who would trust her – she fancied herself an amateur doctor, and in fact did very well. Timothy hoped this medicine was strong enough to help Mr. Strachey.

Strachey drank the water, shuddering at the bitter taste. “Are you a doctor?” he rasped.

“No,” Tim answered, making a great effort to keep the worry from his voice. “I hope what I’m doing is enough.”

The sick man looked like he was trying to say something, but his eyes fluttered shut before he could manage it.

Strachey slept for the rest of the day. He would cough often, sitting up at times with the strain of it, and Tim would bring him water, but he never gained full consciousness. Tim checked and cleaned the holes in his side once more, pleased that the wound was not looking any worse. He kept his face and neck bathed in cool water.

He spent the afternoon keeping water boiling, on the stove and in the fireplace, hoping the steam was helping with Mr. Strachey’s breathing.

Finally, after the sun had set, Strachey’s fever broke. His face lost its bright red glow and now gleamed with sweat. He woke soon after, declaring himself starving.

Tim smiled. “I’m very glad to hear that, Mr. Strachey.”

The man looked at him. “Mr. Strachey? Please, I think the man who saved my life can call me Donald.”

“All right, Donald.”

“And if you told me your name, I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

“Of course not. You were burning with fever then. My name is Timothy Callahan. Timothy, or Tim.”

“Tim, then.”

“Let me warm a biscuit for you.”

When Timothy brought the tin plate with a warm, buttered biscuit, Donald took it, but set it on the bed, looking intently him. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?” Tim was perplexed.

“You’re being very nice. I’m sure you’ve looked through my belongings and know I have nothing of value to repay you.”

Tim flushed, but didn’t deny anything. “I’m helping you because the alternative would probably be you dying.”

“And you’re a good man, right?”

“Are you a bad one?”

Donald held his gaze. “I’m a man who does what he has to do to get by in this world. Helping me isn’t something you have to do.”

“Of course it is,” Tim replied tersely. He was beginning to get upset. He felt as though his character was somehow being called into question for not letting another human being die. But he had to remember, this man had probably been in the war, in life or death situations. And living out here, men were often faced with very difficult decisions. Donald was suspicious, but that didn’t mean he was a bad person. He softened his tone. 

“It’s my nature. I was almost a priest once.”

“You were? Well, that explains it.” Donald held out his hand and Tim took it. “I’m sorry, Timothy. I guess it’s my nature to question the intentions of others.”

Tim sat at the table. “Eat, then we’ll change your bandage and get you cleaned up.” He watched Donald eat, smiling at the sounds of enjoyment he was making.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life,” he said, picking at the crumbs on the plate.

“I’ll chalk that up to you being starving – literally – other than my cooking skills. I’ll get you another, if you think you’re going to keep that down.”

After Donald ate, Tim helped him to a chair by the warm stove with a glass of bourbon while he turned the comforter on the bed to the clean side, doing the same with the pillows. Then he turned to the task of washing his patients. He quickly ran a warm, wet square of sheet over his face, head and torso; he was aware of Donald’s eyes on him, never leaving his face. 

“I have a clean pair of under drawers you can put on, and a shirt.”

Donald smiled appreciatively. “That would be wonderful. It’s been…a while since I’ve felt this clean.”

Tim went to his trunk to get the clothes. When he turned back, Donald was standing, leaning on the chair for support with one hand, trying to push off his pants with the other.

“Here, let me, you’re going to fall over.” Timothy went quickly to Donald’s side. He pushed his pants and underwear down to his knees, then set him in the chair while he pulled them the rest of the way off. He helped Donald slip the shirt on, then took up the bowl and rag. He knelt awkwardly in front of Donald, trying to avert his eyes without seeming like a blushing child.

“If you’ll hold the bowl, I can manage the rest,” Donald said, reaching for the rag. He seemed perfectly at ease being naked and in such close contact with another man.

By the time they were done, Donald could barely make it back to the bed. He took Tim’s hand weakly as he pulled the blanket over him. “Thank you isn’t enough.”

Tim only smiled and went to make his bed on the floor.

Timothy kept busy the next few days, keeping the fireplace and stove going, cooking small, bland meals that Donald could handle, as one of the medications was making him queasy, and otherwise tending to the sick man in every way.

He strung a rope across the room, and washed their clothes and sheets and rags in the large pot on the fireplace, then hung them to dry. 

“Do you know Shakespeare?” he asked one afternoon, when it seemed there was nothing that needed doing at the moment. 

“Not personally,” Donald smiled.

Timothy smiled in return, then stopped, realizing he may have sounded patronizing. “I just meant, I mean, not everyone…” He trailed off, before he made things worse.

“Don’t worry,” Donald assured him. “I’ve never read any of his work, but I did see a play once, Hamlet. The words sounded nice, even though I wasn’t sure what most of them meant.”

“Yes, I know. It takes a bit of studying before you can read or watch a play and get the full meaning.” Timothy went to the cupboard and took out one of the volumes. “Would you like me to read to you? I can explain it as we go along it you like.”

 

After a few days, Donald was much improved and stopped taking any medicine. Timothy urged him to stay in bed, though he did come to the table for meals, and started taking small walks around the cabin. To ward off boredom, in addition to reading, Timothy would sit on the edge of the bed and they would play dice and checkers and poker, using beans for currency. They talked, or rather Tim talked while Donald listened, asking questions about his life, seeming very interested in everything Timothy had to say. Tim wondered if that were true, or if Donald were simply keeping the topic of conversation off himself. When Tim asked about the Confederate uniform, Donald admitted that it was his, and that he’d been discharged, and he didn’t really want to talk about it, too many bad memories.

His gunshot he explained by saying he’d been separated from a hunting party he’d joined up with. He’d been shot accidentally, but they left him for dead. 

“I can’t believe I was that close to your cabin,” he’d laughed, ruefully. “I thought I could smell smoke, but when I came across that cave I didn’t have any more strength to try and find where it was coming from.”

Timothy didn’t believe that story, at least not the part about the hunting party. But he didn’t press the issue. He didn’t know this person he’d brought into his home, or what he would do if he felt cornered or pressured. At the moment he wasn’t strong enough to do anything, but Tim had hid his Colt revolver beneath the root vegetables and his rifle on a shelf behind the tins and bags of staples in the lean-to. 

Donald found it quite amusing that Timothy had first studied to be a lawyer before a priest. “Don’t those two discredit each other?” he laughed. “So what brought you all the way out here? I can’t imagine much need for a lawyer or a priest on this mountain side.”

Now it was Timothy’s turn to be vague. “I wasn’t suited for either profession, it turns out, and so I thought I’d come out here to clear my head, decide what it is I am suited for.”

“Really? A guy like you travels to the wilds of the west for some peace and quiet?”

“A guy like me?” Timothy raised his chin, feeling he may just have been insulted.

“Rich.” Donald leaned across the table and rubbed the material of Timothy’s shirt between his fingers. It was a fine shirt, one of three his mother had made for him right before he left Philadelphia. 

Timothy had already told Donald of his upbringing, his father owning a large dairy farm in addition to a very successful weekly newspaper. He hadn’t mentioned money, but it wouldn’t take much to assume his family was well off.

“My family’s finances really don’t have much to do with how I want to live my life.”

“With a lot of people, they do.” 

“Not me.”

 

As Donald got stronger, he started exercising with Timothy. When Tim would walk outside on his snowshoes, Donald would walk around the inside of the cabin. Together they would lift the heavy metal skillet and cook pots to build their arm strength. Timothy began to look forward to this time.

After a week, as they prepared for bed, Donald watched as Tim brought out the buffalo skin he was using as his bed on the floor. “Tim, let me sleep there. I feel terrible you’ve given up your bed to me. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tim dismissed him.

“Really, it’s a hell of a lot better than a hole in the ground.”

“No, you’re still healing.” Timothy went to get the other skin he used as a blanket, but Donald stepped in his path, blocking him, taking hold of his arms. 

“Then we can share the bed.”

“What?” Timothy tried to pull away, flustered. “It’s not big enough. No.”

“Tim.” Donald put his hand on Timothy’s cheek, stilling him. “Please.”

Timothy worked to keep his breathing steady. He stepped back, out of Donald’s reach. “No.”

No more was said of it, and their routine continued as it had. But Timothy couldn’t forget the way Donald’s hand had warmed his skin. And he caught himself watching Strachey while they exercised, or when they sat across the table from each other, reading in the evening, Tim would realize he was looking over the top of his book or papers, watching Donald read, watching his blue eyes move across the page.

He tried to stop himself, told himself that he was just lonely. What was going on here had nothing to do with what he had felt before, nothing to do with...anything else. It was natural to be drawn to someone you had become friends with when there was no one else around.

And they had become friends, comfortable with each other, content to play cards or talk or argue, or just sit quietly in silence. Donald had opened up more about his past, talking about the hardships of his childhood. He never sounded sorry for himself, simply told the stories of his life in a matter of fact way. His family had worked as sharecroppers on a Georgia pecan farm, young Donald working in the fields alongside his parents since he could remember. When he turned thirteen, he left to go North, where he had heard there were plenty of opportunities for people. He wanted to go to school, and there had been none close enough for him to attend when he was young. 

Timothy was impressed. “What did you study?”

“At first I had to get the basics – reading and my numbers and some science. Then I ended up leaving to go to work. The family I’d been staying with while I went to school moved and I had to find a job. Pass me some salt, would you?”

Timothy handed him the bowl of salt with a grimace. “This fish stew is the saltiest thing I’ve ever made.”

Donald shrugged. “I like salt.”

“That’s too bad, about your schooling, I mean.” Tim said, thinking of the caring family and good schooling he had taken for granted when he was that age. “What did you do?”

“At first I worked in a stable, a place that rented out horses to people for the day. Then one day this guy comes in and says he’ll give me 25 cents if I let him know if a couple ever come in. He gives me their descriptions and the next they came in. I tell the first guy and get the money. He was a private detectives, hired by someone to see if his wife was stepping out on him.”

Tim’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “You were a spy?”

“Not a spy. This guy worked for another private detective by the name of Pinkerton. He was just starting an agency – I got in at the beginning. It wasn’t just faithless women, he helped the police and worked on big cases.” Donald paused in spreading jam on a biscuit. “I enjoyed the work, a lot.”

“Then what happened?”

“The war. I had to go back to Georgia, fight for the Confederacy. I didn’t really care about whose side I was on, I just couldn’t stand the thought that I might be killing my family or old friends if I fought for the North.”

Timothy nodded, feeling slightly ashamed that that problem had not been one he had to face. Because he was in school, and because his father “knew” people, he had not been forced to enlist. Later on, when there had been a bigger push to get men enlisted, any men, he was in seminary school, even more protected from the recruitment officers.

“Did you…” he hesitated, not sure about asking anything of the war, but Donald had brought the subject up, so… “Were you involved in heavy fighting? Was it horrible?” What he knew was only the stories he had heard – mostly second hand – from friends of friends, or people who come to the church, looking for solace. As soon as he asked the question, he felt a fool. Of course it was horrible. And when he saw Donald’s face darken, he hurried to take it back.

“Never mind, please, I’m sorry. You obviously don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s all right, I don’t mind.”

“You do, please.”

Donald took a drink of water. “It was what you’d expect - cold, miserable conditions, not enough food, not enough to drink, walking until you’d thought your feet would wear away and leave bloody stumps.” He took another drink, and the subject was done.

That night, something woke Timothy. As he came fully conscious, he realized it was either his teeth chattering or…smoke in the cabin!

He jumped to his feet, struck immediately by the bitter cold. Donald was at the stove, closing up the doors.

“I was just going to wake you,” he said. “It’s gotten fucking freezing, if you haven’t noticed. The wind shifted and is blowing down the chimney. I’ve shut the flue.

“The temperature must have dropped thirty degrees!” Timothy grabbed the buffalo skin from the floor and wrapped it around himself. 

“Come on, come get in this bed with me. It’s still the middle of the night.” Donald jumped into the bed and pushed himself against the wall. “Bring that skin with you, we’ll need it.”

Timothy stood by the stove, his indecision freezing him, as much as the cold air. “I’ll be okay,” he finally said.

“God, don’t be an idiot, Callahan! We need each other’s body heat to keep us warm. We slept huddled together on the battlefield all the time.” He slapped his hand on the mattress. “Hurry, goddammit!”

Timothy swallowed his hesitation, threw the fur on the bed, grabbed the rest of the bedding from the floor and climbed into bed. They arranged the furs, blankets and pillows and burrowed beneath it all. They lay side by side, stiff and silent, until Donald turned on his side toward Timothy. 

“If you want to turn on your side and push against me, you can.” He put a hand on Timothy’s shoulder. “It will be warmer.” He squeezed gently. “I’ll be good, I promise.” This was said with humor in his voice, but Timothy was mortified – did Donald know what was going through his head?

He turned over – he couldn’t think of a reason not to – but when Donald pushed up against him, putting his arm over him every muscle in his body tensed. They lay that way for several minutes, until Timothy could tell by his breathing that Donald was asleep. Finally, his body slowly relaxed and he couldn’t deny how much he had missed his bed and how much warmer he was.

When he woke, Donald was on his back and Tim was pressed up against him, his head against his shoulder, his arms wrapped around Donald’s. He couldn’t remember even moving during the night, and wondered what other positions they had ended up in. Even though this close proximity was making him very uncomfortable, he dreaded moving, the cold on his face a weight, keeping him there. But nature called, and he had to force himself to the lean-to to make use of the bucket he kept there for when it was too cold or snowy to face going outside.

Back in the cabin, Donald was up, waiting his turn. They nodded good morning, their jaws clenched to keep their teeth from chattering. 

Slipping his boots and coat on, Timothy grabbed the water bucket, took a deep breath and opened the front door. The cold immediately soaked into his bones, making it hard to move, and the frigid wind took his breath away. It hadn’t snowed for a while, so the short path out front was still clear. But the cold had frozen the snow like ice, and he had to use the metal bucket to chop away at it. Luckily, a large chunk broke off and he hurried back inside.

Donald, already dressed, was adding wood to the stove. “I thought just a couple biscuits and a pot full of coffee would be good.”

Tim nodded, still reeling from being outside. He broke the frozen chunk of snow up with a knife and put half in the medium sized pot on the stove top. 

The men worked quickly and quietly, boiling the coffee and warming the biscuits. They pulled their chairs next to the stove to eat, then sat there another half hour, drinking coffee and wondering how long this cold snap could last.

They went to bed early, the effort of trying to stay warm exhausting them. They repeated the routine of last night, with Donald, laying on his good side, pressed up behind Timothy. This time, it took Timothy less time to relax and fall asleep, though his awareness of Donald’s body against his was no less intense.

They continued the same routine for several more days. The wind raged and the cold continued on. They took to sleeping late and going to bed early, and even taking naps during the day. Going outside for snow to melt, or to empty the chamber pot, or to get wood caused such a deep chill to settle into them, it would take several minutes to warm up again. They didn’t do much but read, not in the mood for any games.

Timothy understood that if he weren’t so miserably cold, he would be more ill at ease, sleeping in the arms of another man. He was very aware of Donald’s body pressed against his, the solidness of him, the gentle curve of his arm, his thighs pressed hard and warm against Timothy’s own. 

When they reversed their positions, with Timothy behind Donald, he would sometimes wake with his hard cock pressed tight against the yielding curves of Donald’s backside. At these times he would roll to his back and do his best to ignore the throbbing in his body and the yearning in his soul. 

He had come to have feelings, true feeling, for Donald. The man was witty and intelligent, despite his limited schooling. He had informed opinions on many subjects, but he was open to listening to an opposing point of view, if Timothy had one. And Timothy could not deny the physical attraction. As Donald regained his health, he also regained an impressive physique, one that Timothy was well aware of as they shared the bed.

Sometimes he thought about George, the young man who sent him west, through not fault of his own. He would think of the way George’s soft cheek had felt beneath his hand, and then his lips, the way George’s breath had warmed the back of his neck, the way he had called his name – “Oh, God, Tim!” that one night they had let themselves love each other.

But it had been wrong, sinful, and had ended badly, with George so full of guilt he had left two days later. That same guilt – along with an almost paralyzing sadness – had sent Timothy back home two weeks later. And two weeks after that, on a train out west, looking for release from his transgression.

And look, he was right back in the same situation. Even sequestering himself on the side of a mountain on the edge of civilization couldn’t keep him from the prospect of sin. 

These all were thoughts he kept to himself, of course - Donald would never know of his feelings.

 

In the middle of the eighth night of sharing a bed, Timothy woke suddenly. He sat up, pulling himself free from Donald’s embrace, straining for a sound, a clue of what woke him. And then he realized – there was no sound. No wind howling, no stovepipe rattling, no chimney whistling. The night was completely still, completely quiet – even Donald had stopped his snoring. He lay back down, facing the other man and fell back asleep looking at him, and feeling somewhat melancholy.

The next morning the temperature had noticeably risen. They still ate their breakfast at the stove, but didn’t shiver as they did. Donald climbed up on the roof, over Timothy’s objection, and made sure the chimney was clear, and checked the paper on the roof. They built the fire back up in the fireplace, and had a game of checkers after lunch. 

When bedtime came again, still early, Donald said, “I guess you can go back to the floor now.”

Timothy stopped, mouth open, stunned and, he realized with a start, hurt. “Yes,” he finally managed, “I guess it’s –”

Donald shook his head, laughing. “No, I’m just kidding, you’re not going back to the floor.” He stopped laughing, his expression turning serious as he studied Timothy’s face. “God, I’m sorry.” They were standing at the bed, having stripped down to their underclothes. 

“No, it’s okay, it’s probably best, anyhow.” Timothy was realizing he had been grateful every night for the bitter cold, forcing him into the comfort of Donald’s arms. And he recalled his letdown feeling this morning when he realized the temperature had warmed.

“Timothy.” Donald took hold of his arms, his eyes searching Timothy’s face, dark and purposeful. “I want you in the bed with me. I want you.”

Timothy’s breathing stopped as he understood Donald’s words. He didn’t know what to do, what to think. But when Donald leaned toward him, and Timothy realized he meant to kiss him, his paralysis broke. He pulled away, terrified.

“What are you saying?” He went to the other side of the cabin, running his hands through his hair. “That’s…that’s perverse. Wrong…what you’re saying is…it’s against man’s nature, against God.” Timothy’s heart was beating against his chest, and he could hear the blood pounding in his head. What was he going to do, trapped here in this cabin with this man? The feelings he’d been managing to keep under control were flooding through him and he didn’t know how he would deal with it all.

“Timothy, it’s okay, please, I’m sorry.” Donald was walking toward him slowly, hands held up. “If I was wrong about you, I’m so sorry.”

“Of course you’re wrong.”

Donald nodded, but Timothy could see the disbelief in his eyes. “I’ll go sleep in the lean-to.”

“What? No, that’s ridiculous, it’s still freezing, you’ll freeze out there.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll stay out there tonight, then get out of here tomorrow. I might need to borrow some things to get me down the mountain, but I should go while I can.”

“Donald.” 

But the other man turned from him, taking a fur and a blanket from the bed and disappearing into the lean-to.

Timothy stood where he was, looking at the closed door between him and Donald. What had just happened? All these feelings, these thoughts that he’d been having about Donald, and had tried so hard to hide – did Donald feel the same, think the same? 

He spent the next hour pacing the cabin. He tried to sleep but couldn’t stay still. His mind was racing, his body tense and jumpy. He didn’t want Donald to leave, but wouldn’t that be the best thing? He was here to get away from temptation – shouldn’t he get that temptation away from him? And how could they possibly live together after what had just happened?

When Donald came into the room in the early morning, Timothy went to face him, weary and nervous.

“Donald, we should talk.”

Donald looked at him sadly, shook his head. “I think the best thing would be for me to leave. What I said, it’s not something you can just take back. It would be too awkward for me to stay here.”

It was exactly what Timothy had thought just hours ago, but he had done a lot more thinking since then.

His hand was trembling as he reached out to Donald. “Please, sit with me.”

Donald looked at him, at his hand, and sat down.

Timothy sat across from him, clenching his hands together on his lap. He let out a breath. “How did you know?”

Donald spoke seriously, but Timothy thought he saw a trace of smile on his lips. “I saw you watching me.”

“You did?” Timothy was embarrassed. “I thought I was being clever.”

“Didn’t you ever see me watching you?”

“What? No!” Timothy could feel his skin flush and he clenched his hands together even tighter.

“And there was the Bible.”

“The Bible?”

Donald went to the cupboard and retrieved the book. He opened it halfway and lay it on the table. The pages flipped over, coming to rest on the book of Leviticus.

“It’s obvious you’ve been reading the passages about men lying with men. Either you’re going to become a priest and preach about the evils of that particular sin, or it’s something that’s been bothering your conscious for personal reasons.”

Timothy blinked. “That’s impressive.”

Donald shrugged. “I used to be a detective, remember? Also,” his voice softened as he finished. “Also, I heard you talk in your sleep. You said the name ‘George’ a few times. I figured that wasn’t a relative.”

Timothy closed his eyes, feeling as thought the blush would never leave his face. “No, not a relative.”

Donald put his hand out on the table; Timothy placed his own on top without thinking. “I don’t want to scare you, Timothy. I’m sorry if I did. I just couldn’t go another day without telling you how I feel. Do you know how hard it was to be so close to you and not touch you like I wanted to?”

Timothy squeezed Donald’s fingers. “Yes, actually I do.”

Donald smiled. “I care for you, Tim. A lot. And, apparently, you feel the same. I can’t stay here if we can’t act on our feelings. I know you’re conflicted and confused, so what happens next is up to you.”

“Donald,” Timothy paused, not sure what he was going to say. 

Donald took the opportunity to keep speaking. “I have to tell you something first, before you decide.”

“All right.”

“Can you make us some coffee while I talk? I think it would be easier if you weren’t looking at me.”

“Of course.” Timothy got the coffee and a few things to make breakfast and stood at the stove, keeping his back to Donald. He was nervous, wondering what it could be that Donald couldn’t look him in the face while saying.

“I was in the Confederate Army, like I said. But I wasn’t discharged, I figured you know that.”

“I had heard they weren’t letting men out for anything but medical reason or injury.”

“I was in prison.”

Timothy stopped himself from turning. “Not Fort Delaware.” He’d heard rumors about the inhumane treatment in that Union prison camp.

“No. I was at Sumter – Andersonville.”

“But that...” Timothy stopped measuring the coffee. “That’s a Confederate prison.”

“Yeah. I was put in there when I was caught,” he paused, his voice dropping. “I was caught with another man. I was charged with sodomy, put in prison to await the end of the war so I could be tried.”

“Oh, Donald.” Timothy had a brief vision of law men breaking down his door and carting him off to jail, imprisoning him for what he and George had done. He had worried so much over the moral issues, he had barely given thought that he could be jailed for their brief encounter.

“I had to escape – I knew I wouldn’t last until trial, and even if I did, I would likely be executed.”

“Executed! For...for...”

“For pervasions against nature and God. Pretty much what you said last night.”

Timothy closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know how hard this is for you.”

“The bruises on you, they were from the prison?”

Donald was silent so long, Timothy almost turned.

“Yes,” he finally managed, his voice rough. “I was beaten every day, my food taken from me – ” Again he stopped. “That’s all I can talk about that right now.”

“I’m so sorry,” Timothy whispered. “What happened next?”

“I escaped. I escaped and made it out here, doing odd jobs to pay my way. I made it as far as that little town a couple miles out –”

“Dellside.”

“Dellside. And there was a wanted poster with a list of men who had escaped from Andersonville. And there was my fucking picture, right in the middle. Someone recognized me, can you believe it? All the goddam way out here and I get spotted. He followed me out of town and when I wouldn’t stop, he shot me. I played more hurt than I was, and when he came over to me I got his gun from him and shot him back.” Again another pause, and this time Timothy did turn, watching him.

Donald was sitting with his head in hands; Timothy could barely stop himself from going to him.

Donald continued. “I killed him. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, just trying to make a few dollars by catching a deserter, and he died for it. I was afraid someone might have heard the gunshots, or known he was going after me and come looking for him, so I started up the mountain. I was hoping to find someone, or someplace I could hide away, maybe make it to the pass and go down the other side, but I got too weak, too hungry – and you know the rest.”

When Donald looked up, his eyes were stricken and wet.

“Why should it be like this, Tim? Why is it wrong to care about someone, whoever they are?”

Timothy came over and put his arms around Donald’s shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t know why God made us like this if it’s wrong.”

“It’s not wrong!” Donald slammed his fist on the table and Timothy stood back, eyes wide. “I don’t care what the fucking Bible says! The Bible says a lot of shit that doesn’t hold true today, and you know it, Timothy!” He stood up quickly, knocking his chair over. “It’s no one else’s fucking business who I love!”

Timothy moved away, eyes wide, but not scared. He understood Donald’s rage, but all he could focus on was the word ‘love.’ Had he meant it toward Timothy, or in general? He wouldn’t ask now, wouldn’t press the point, but he couldn’t let Donald leave after that.  
He grabbed hold of the raging man, held him still and quieted his ranting. “Donald, Donald, I don’t want you to leave. Please, stay with me.”

Donald was breathing hard, his eyes wide, his adrenaline slow to recede. “Are you sure, Tim? You have to be sure. You have to know what you’re saying. If I stay, I won’t hold back my feelings for you.” His intensity was almost too much, too overwhelming, but Timothy wanted everything this man had in him, good or bad.

“No, I don’t want you to. Don’t hold anything back.”

Donald’s hands came up, one resting on Timothy’s chest, the other sliding around to hold the back of his head. This time, as Donald leaned toward him, Timothy met him, not just accepting the kiss, but returning it in full. 

The kiss was deep and passionate, slowing into sweet and tentative, their hands moving, touching, discovering. When they parted, after a long minute, Donald ran his finger over Timothy’s bottom lip. “Finally.”

Both men smiled, and were back in each other’s arms in a loving embrace. “You know what?” Donald whispered in Timothy’s ear. 

“Hmmm?”

“I could really go for a cup of coffee.”

Timothy pulled away, laughing, and headed for the stove.

They sat at the table, drinking coffee and eating venison jerky and left over fried potatoes and talking. They told each other about all the times in their lives when they’d had to deny who they were and swallow their feelings. Donald admitted to having several dalliances, but they all meant nothing, merely release of the flesh. He’d been attracted to a couple men, but he couldn’t risk being found out by letting them know.

When the cold began to get to them, they moved to the bed, sitting next to each, leaning against pillows cushioning the wall. Timothy took Donald’s hand. “I want to thank you for sharing your story with me.”

“It got harder every day, keeping something like from you. You saved my life and became a good friend – I started feeling like I was lying to you, in a way, by not telling you.”

“Listening to you, hearing everything you’ve been through, it made me realize that my own situation wasn’t so bad.”

Donald put his fingers on Timothy’s chin, turning his face toward him. He kissed Timothy so gently, so lovingly, he felt himself tear up. “Tell me about George,” Donald said.

Timothy nodded and took Donald’s hand in his and started talking. He told how George had come to the school almost two years after Timothy, and how they’d become friends immediately. 

They found they both loved art, so when they could leave the school, they would go to art galleries together, or take walks in the free time they had each evening. There were small signs at first of their attraction – a lingering brush of a hand, a prolonged look in each other’s eyes. They began reciting poetry to each other, the message of each becoming more and more intimate, more embroiled in the theme of love.

“It was George who made the first move. A simple touch to my cheek when we said good-night at my bedroom door. The next night I kissed his fingertips.” He choked a laugh. “It was all so proper. So chaste and formal, even when he finally came to my room in the middle of the night.”

“Did you love him?”

Timothy smiled sadly. “I don’t think so. I think I was in love with the idea of being able to love. But I did care for him.”

“And after that night?”

“I didn’t see him again. He stayed in his room, sick, they told us. One of the old priests stayed with him, practically guarding him. He could have no visitors. I wonder if he told them what happened. If he did, he didn’t name me. Anyhow, he was gone two days later.”

“Did he write, or leave a message?”

“No. He was just gone.” Though it had been almost a year, the pain still felt sharp when he remembered Father Hanover announcing at breakfast that George was gone. He had realized the priesthood wasn’t for him. And if there were any others here that felt the same way, they should go now, before it was too late, before they disappointed themselves or their families or God. 

Timothy had stuck it out two more weeks before going home.

“I’m so sorry, Timmy.”

Timothy looked at him. “Timmy?”

Donald looked as surprised as he was. “It just came out. I like it, though.” Donald smiled at him. “Is it okay? No one’s ever called you that, have they?” Tim shook his head. “Good. It’s mine.”

“Do I get one for you?” 

“Donny?”  
“Not Donny!”

They said this in unison, laughing afterward.

“I’ll think of one for you some day.”

“I like that,” Donald said, “the idea that we’ll have a some day.” But then he pulled away, looking worried. “I don’t want to get you in trouble, Timmy. What if someone else recognizes me?”

“We’ll just have to keep you out of sight. As soon as I can, I’ll go into Dellside and make sure there are no more posters. If you stay out of town this next summer, I’m sure no one will recognize you after a year, even if they did see your picture.” 

Timothy suddenly thought of something. “Assuming you want to stay here. Do you, Donald, do you want to make your home here, in this little cabin in the middle of nowhere? You were a detective and a soldier – won’t you be bored?”

Donald seemed to think it over. “Will you be here?”

“Of course.”

“Then no, I won’t be bored. But there’s something to think about – people will find out I’m here. What will we tell them?”

Timothy sighed and leaned his head back, looking at the ceiling. “We’ll think of something. If we’re lucky, it will be a very, very long winter and we won’t have to think about it for a long, long time.” He looked over at Donald with a smile. “For now, let’s just think about us.”

“Wonderful idea.”

That night they stayed awake until sunrise, holding each other, kissing and touching and exploring each other’s bodies. Finally, as the sun’s rays began reaching over the mountain top, Donald made his way down Timothy’s body, dropping soft kisses, licking and breathing hot puffs of air until Timothy was moaning and writhing. He had never felt anything like this and when Donald took him in his mouth, gently sucking, stroking his thighs, Timothy lost all reason. When he came, his whole body lifted from the bed and he nearly screamed Donald’s name.  
Several minutes later, after he had recovered and could breath normally again, he looked up from where he laying on Donald’s chest. “What about you?” His hand slid down until he found Donald’s cock, hard and already slick with his arousal. He stroked softly at first, then his hold tightened.

“You just keep that up and you’ll see about me.”

Timothy raised himself up on his other arm and kissed Donald’s mouth and cheeks and eyes. He licked along his lips and nuzzled his ear, all the way keeping an increasingly firmer, faster rhythm with his other hand. 

It took only a minute until Donald threw his head back. “God, oh God, Timmy, Timmy.” 

Timothy delighted in the hot, slick release covering his hand, knowing it was his touch that had made it happen.

 

They woke hours later, curled together like that first night, Donald pressed up behind Timothy. But now, instead of being scared of Donald’s body against his, he pressed back and pulled Donald’s arm tighter around him. 

Donald stirred and kissed his neck. “I love you, Timmy,” he breathed sleepily.

Timothy’s breath quit for a moment, and his eyes filled with tears. He brought Donald’s hand up to his mouth and kissed his fingertips. “I love you, too, Donny.”

This brought a chuckle from behind and a small nip on his shoulder. “All right, you can call me that, but only when you’re telling me you love me.”

Timothy turned over. “You’re going to get so sick of hearing that name.” They clasped their hands between them and fell back to sleep.

 

~end~


End file.
